


Among the Stacks

by not_about_snow



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: M/M, Post-High School, bookshop au, coffee shop AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-07-10 09:08:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6976906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_about_snow/pseuds/not_about_snow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A coffee shop and bookstore au where neither boy knows each other until Baz stumbles into the coffee shop Simon works at and manages to infuriate him immediately. Fluff and angst ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Among the Stacks

Simon

I’ve never been particularly good with words. With speaking words. I always find myself stumbling over my words and having them spill out of my mouth all wrong – completely different from what I had imagined saying. Writing I can do, speaking I can’t. 

I first started reading because it was part of the job. Working at a bookshop-meets-café kind of requires it. It passes the time during lulls in customers, at least. But it soon turned into an excellent source of distraction. I needed an outlet for my wandering mind and it turns out reading is perfect for that. It prevents me from overthinking, which never leads to anything positive. 

And reading excessively transferred into writing excessively, which I do quite a lot while on shift at Kafka Coffee. Even though I’m pretty sure having a laptop behind the counter is worse than just having a book hidden. But I usually work alone, and customers are never that demanding.  
I started working here part way into my last year of high school and now that it’s summer I practically live here. If I’m not working I still like to hang around, sit in a comfy chair among the bookshelves and read whatever book catches my fancy. 

Penny, my best friend, often visits me during my shifts, as she is today, though her visits are sometimes less than a blessing, since she finds it amusing to order complicated drinks that I always mess up or struggle with. She calls it practice. I call it being a bad customer. 

Half an hour ago she ordered some obnoxious mix of flavours that I’ve already forgotten, even though I asked her to repeat it twice. She’s currently slumped over a book at the closest table to the counter, and every so often she grumbles and complains about her reading choice. I told her to just switch books but she told me she refused to let the book win – whatever that means. 

“Is my drink ready yet?” she asks me now, because I’m sure she’s somehow read my mind and knew I forgot. Or perhaps she thought half an hour a little ridiculous to wait for her drink. I swear I’m better with real customers’ drinks. 

“Did you say mocha-kiwi or vanilla-orange?” I ask her, grabbing a new cub and staring at the flavourings along the back wall.

“I swear Simon, do you even listen to me?”

“You do talk an awful lot sometimes, you have to admit. I can’t possible remember it all…”

“Great friend you are,” she says with a snort, then stands up to come around the counter and make her own drink. She takes the cup from my hand and gets to work. The other two customers in the shop don’t even look up as she starts scolding me partly for forgetting her order, and partly because she’s annoyed at her book and needs to complain about it to someone. I am that lucky (unlucky) someone. 

Penny’s just about done her drink when the lights flicker then go out. There’s a moment of darkness in the café where no one moves or says anything and the only sound being made is by the rain outside, and then just as suddenly the backup generator kicks in and relights a portion of the lights. 

It’s dimmer now than it was, but it’s better than darkness, and most of the coffee machines are still capable of running. One customer takes this as her cue to leave, and she shuffles to the door, umbrella in hand, ready to face the storm that is raging outside. Her umbrella flips the moment she steps outside, but she shuffles away anyways. 

The other remaining customer looks down at his cup, finishes the last of his drink, and quickly follows suit, rushing off into the raging night. 

“You’d think they’d stay here and wait out the rain,” I call out to Penny, who has starting wandering between the bookshelves with her drink.

“I think it’s going to get worse before it gets better,” she answers before poking her head out from behind a shelf. “Are you closing soon?” 

It’s nearly 10:30 at night, but the café often stays open until midnight, and occasionally later, if it’s busy enough. My manager, Ebb, gives me free reign over when I want to close for the night, so long as it’s not ridiculously early. I somehow doubt we’ll get any more costumers tonight, with the storm and all. 

“I’ll start cleaning up now.”

 

Penny

Simon begins wiping down the coffee machines as I wander the shelves in search of something interesting or new. A large volume of volcano activity in Iceland catches my eye and I sit down in a nearby chair and sip my caramel-raspberry frap. Simon Snow clearly never listens to me. 

 

Simon

As I wipe down the espresso machine the door chime goes off, sending a gust of wind and rain splattering into the café. I glance up to find a tall, slim, dark-haired man standing in the doorway. Vampire is the first word that pops into my mind as I stare at him. He fits the criteria: dark, mysterious, slightly menacing, with high cheekbones, a long slender nose, arched eyebrows, and a widows peak to top it all off. The only physical trait that doesn’t fit is the paleness, or lack thereof. Even his clothes play the part – a long dark jacket, black skinny jeans (okay, maybe some sort of new hip vampire?), and black boots. 

I stare at him for longer than is probably acceptable, trying to form words to say to him. Finally I settle for stammering out: “We were- I mean, I was just about to- the thing is…” but before I can continue getting something out of my mouth, the customer steps further into the café and casually motions over his shoulder.

“The sign says 11.” 

I silently curse myself for not taking down the ‘Open!’ sign first, but resign myself to getting him his order quickly and shuffling him out of here as soon as possible. Even though I just did clean all the machines. Wanker. 

“Right. So what can I get you?” 

I could probably make up some emergency or excuse to close the café early and not serve him, but this stranger unnerves me enough to stay silent. Instead I wait for his order while staring straight ahead and avoiding eye contact. 

“Could I get a pumpkin mocha breve?” He finally asks, looking straight at me and giving me a once-over before a cocky smile appears. 

“Uhh- probably,” is all I can think to reply with.

“Probably?”

“Yeah, let me just – check if we have pumpkin flavouring left,” I reply quickly, ducking below the counter and pulling out my phone. I type ‘breve’ into the search engine and open the Coffee Wikia page, quickly reading over their brief description. 

You’d think working at a café for half a year would make me acquainted with most of these beverages, but it really hasn’t. I’m hopeless. But I’m not going to let this stranger know that. 

I quickly read over the ingredients: one part espresso, one part steamed half and half-

“Are you looking up what breve is?” I hear from above me. 

My head snaps up to find the stranger leaning over the counter, right above me, staring right at me with the cockiest smile I have ever seen. I can feel my whole face go red before I start stammering half-hearted excuses, none of which make any sense or are even remotely believable. 

 

Baz

As the barista crouches below the counter to supposedly check if there is pumpkin spice flavouring left I see behind him rows of flavouring, one of which clearly reads ‘Pumpkin Spice’ and is half full. I cock my eyebrow and look back to where the golden haired boy is crouched. 

Leaning over the counter I look down to find him typing ‘breve’ into a search engine and looking at a page explaining the drink. 

“Are you looking up what breve is?” I ask, letting my voice drip with scorn. The boy whips his head up and stares at me, mouth open, face turning a bright shade of red that would be adorable if he wasn’t such a git. 

He starts stammering out excuses, none of which I believe for a second, until he finally stops and quickly stands up, forcing me to retreat back over the counter. I cock an eyebrow at him and we stare at each other for endless seconds before he finally sighs.

“Yes. Do you want the drink or not?” 

I smile, feeling victorious and nod my head in acknowledgement. 

“To go?” He asks reaching for a paper cup. I stare at his still red face and shake my head, the smile never leaving my lips, “for here.” 

 

Simon

I swear he’s staying just to piss me off. He knows I was about to close and yet here he is, getting comfortable at a table in direct line of sight from where I stand, starting to make his drink. He digs around his satchel until he pulls out a novel and he sits there reading, every so often looking up from the pages to cock an eyebrow at me when he catches me staring. I’m not staring. I’m just assessing. There’s a difference. 

When his makeshift drink is ready I very much don’t want to bring it over to him. I still feel slightly unnerved by his presence, but I suck it up and do my job. His eyes follow me as I head around the counter with his mug in hand, heading to his table. I feel a blush start to creep up my neck, but I will it down as I gently place the mug on his table. He let’s out a breezy “thank you” as I turn around and retreat back behind the counter. 

I pick up where I left off my cleaning routine and stare at him through the corner of my eye as he picks up the cup moments later. He takes a sip then pauses before lowering the cup. His face is blank of all expression. He slowly takes another sip and then his lips quirk into a smile that’s attempting to contain a laugh. 

“What?” I snap, before I can stop myself. 

“This is by far the worst mocha I’ve ever tasted,” he replies, concealing the smile behind a blank mask.

“Do you want me to make you another one then?” I ask annoyed, hoping he’ll just leave and never return.

“I don’t doubt that that one would be just as bad. This one is fine. You also forgot the mocha.” 

“It’s not my fault! You kept staring at me menacingly as I made it! How was I supposed to concentrate?” I spit back, regretting it immediately as it exists my mouth. My face flushes red again and I quickly turn away just as he raises his eyebrow to me yet again. I grumble and finish my cleaning, ducking behind the counter to grab a slip of paper that advertises a free drink. I don’t want to offer him one, but it’s policy at our café to give them to customers who aren’t completely satisfied with their drinks or service, and Ebb would murder me if she knew I didn’t offer one now. 

I stalk back over to his table, slap one down, and do my best to mimic his intimidating and menacing eyebrow raise. I think I probably fail miserably by the way he stares back at me.

“It’s customary,” I explain, even though he doesn’t ask.

“Will the free one be as crap as this one?” He asks, “I’d get practicing if I were you, Snow.” 

My mouth falls open in surprise at hearing my name.

“How did you know my name?” I bluster. His hand comes up to my chest and I flinch away, expecting a shove. But he merely taps my nametag once before lowering his hand and picking up his book again. I glance down at the nametag that exclaims ‘Hi, I’m Simon Snow!’ in big bubbly letters. 

I have no good comeback to that so I just turn and head into the shelves, suddenly remembering Penny is somewhere among them, waiting for me. When I find her, she is fast asleep in a chair, book open on her lap, empty cup by her elbow. I take her cup but leave her sleeping for now.

 

Baz

Snow reappears at the counter, leaning on his elbows and staring off into the distance. I drink the atrocity that he made me as slow as possible, to milk it until 11. At 11 I promptly return my book to my bag, put my jacket back on and plop the empty mug onto the counter in front of him. 

“Don’t forget to start practicing,” I warn him, because I can’t help myself, and because I’m weak. Simon Snow is incapable of stringing together a single decent sentence or of making anything resembling a breve, yet as I walk out of the café I can’t help thinking of his golden hair and his pouting lips. I know I probably shouldn’t, but I already know I’ll be returning for that free drink and to antagonize him more. Like I said, I’m weak.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr at not-about-snow.tumblr.com
> 
> Thanks for reading, let me know what you think!


End file.
